


Tell Me How

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedsharing, Cuddles, First Kiss, First Time, Jealous John, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Case Fic, friends to lover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: When an experiment goes wrong, leaving a hole in Sherlock's mattress, there is no other choice but to share John's bed. If this sudden change can bring them closer, helping an old friend of Sherlock's can ruin it all instead.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Tell Me How](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840804) by [Gnewtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnewtt/pseuds/Gnewtt)



> Happy Birthday xtina!!! 
> 
> I hope this fic will make this day even better than it already is! Thank you for being such an amazing friend and partner in writing! Here's to many more adventures together!
> 
>  
> 
> This work hasn't been betaed, so I apologize for any mistakes.

John wakes up with a startle, heart pounding with every loud “No” coming from downstairs. A quick glance at his nightstand - 03:08 - and he’s out and rushing downstairs. The living room is dark, the kitchen even darker and he directly heads for Sherlock’s bedroom, getting ready for anything that might be happening in there.

“No, no, no!”

“Sherlock,” he exclaims, barging in. “Are you alright?”

John stops dead, eyes going from Sherlock’s figure, wearing only his pajamas pants, to the giant, greenish hole in his matress. Relief washes over, accompanied by an uncontrollable giggle.

“What happened there?”

“I forgot an experiment,” Sherlock replies, glaring at him. “It burned through the plastic and, apparently, most of my bed too.”

Another chuckle earns John some more glaring. Clearing his throat, he gets closer to the current disaster, taking a quick look at the damages. 

“Clearly you’ll need a new mattress,” he says, sighing.

“Thank you John, for this brilliant observation,” Sherlock snorts.

John looks back at him, focusing on the safe parts of his body, “And clearly you’re way too tired right now.”

“I wouldn’t be if I could lie in my bed,” Sherlock replies, pointing to the hole.

“Come upstairs,” John says, deciding here and now he might also be too tired to think properly. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

Sherlock remains silent and still for a long minute, just the time for John to truly get around what he just offered. Obviously an half naked Sherlock has never been much help to clear thinking, and the currently advanced hour isn’t helping in the slightest, but with each seconds ticking by, John realises he might have talked too fast.

“Alright.”

John looks away, the hole seeming somehow bigger now. He needs to think quickly. Sherlock is going to come upstairs, sleep in his bed, and probably notice and deduce every single clothes, folds in the sheets and half-closed drawers, even in his current state. 

“Why don’t you make sure this won’t get worse and grab a pillow,” he finally offers. “I’ll wait upstairs.”

He all but flees the room, eyes locked to the floor and speeding up once out of sight. Taking the stairs two by two as silently as he can, John flies the door open, taking a quick look around. First, the clothes on the chair, making sure it’s folded and somewhat clean. Then, the wardrobe, closed and with no peek at anything too personal. Finally, the bed. He tugs on the sheets, flattens the cover, rearranges the pillow. It only occurs to him, with Sherlock’s footstep getting closer, that his genius of a friend might actually deduce everything he just did.

John rushes for the bedlight, turning it on and going to turn off the main lights just as Sherlock knocks at the door. 

“Yeah, come in.”

John notes the added pajamas shirt with both rellief and regret, but looks away before betraying himself. 

“Left side,” he says, not quite a question.

He’s already lying back down on the right one, eyes everywhere but on Sherlock as he goes to put his pillow down. Only their breathing echoe in the room as he gets under the cover too, and for a long moment, they lie still with the lights on and neither of them thinking of doing anything about it.

“Your experiment won’t burn through the floor too by tomorrow morning, right?”

“There’s a high chance it won’t,” Sherlock replies, a barely hidden smile in his voice.

“Good,” John says, already relaxing just a little.

He waits another second or so before reaching for the light and turning it off. Darkness surrounds them like a second duvet, warm and comfortable. He doesn’t keep his eyes open too long, focusing on his breathing. Trying to ignore Sherlock’s presence would be foolish considering the tangible distance between them right now, and so John doesn’t. He slowly lets himself get used to it, his own skin warming up to Sherlock’s body heat. 

“Goodnight,” Sherlock suddenly says, giving John yet another scared jump. “Sorry.”

“I’m used to it,” John laughs softly. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Their breathing only, again. Somewhere between estimating the exact distance between them and wondering why does his own bed feels somehow comfier now, John falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes slowly hours later, wondering at first what’s changed only to register the all too familiar scent imprinting the pillow his face is currently smashed in. He sits up straight too quickly, his head spinning just a little. Sherlock is nowhere to be found and so John allows himself to breathe out deeply.

He turns Sherlock’s pillow around, just in case, and gets to his feet. The flat is silent. With no signs of life anywhere, he sends a quick text to Sherlock, inquiring about his whereabouts and reminding him he’ll be at the clinic all day. He doesn’t get an answer until he’s almost out of the flat, Gone to Bart’s, calming down the little part of John’s brain which has been stupidly worried so far.

He purposely doesn’t allow himself to think of the way he woke up - or all the others ways he could have woke up this morning, and by the time he arrives at work, John is fully prepared to spend this day not thinking about Sherlock lying in his bed. That’s it, of course, until lunch time comes around and with it, Tom.

“John! Mind if I join?”

“Not at all,” John smiles.

Tom had arrived at the clinic a few months ago, and somehow, one drunken night at the club, John had confessed his undying love for his gorgeous flatmate/bestfriend (Tom’s words the next day). Burning shame had followed John’s around for days after that, each time they cross path, but turned out Tom had, also quite drunkenly, sworn to help him get that fine beauty genius (his words again) and intended to do so very seriously.

“Busy day, right?” Tom starts, biting into his ham sandwich with enthusiasm.

“Can’t complain,” John replies.

“Of course,” Tom laughs. “Always seeing the bright side.”

John doesn’t reply, wondering what Tom would say if he were to tell a few stories.

“So,” Tom finally says, a bright grin on his lips. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Any changes in our quest?”

“It’s a quest now?”

Tom shrugs, “Might as well be.”

John rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his water. He had been ignoring Tom’s smiles and teases and winks at first, but he had to admit that having someone to actually talk to about this has its advantages. There isn’t a high chance Sherlock will ever be aware of Tom’s mere existence, and if his colleague hadn’t said a word about this to anyone in the past months, there is no reasons for John to be careful.

“Sherlock slept in my bed last night,” he blurs out, watching Tom nearly choke on his food.

“Wait- What?”

“An experiment gone wrong, his mattress is useless so I offered mine.”

“Of course you did,” Tom laughs. “Well done, mate!”

“We just slept next to each other,” John replies. “He woke me up in the middle of the night, we were both very tired obviously or else he would have say something.”

“Unless that was his plan all along,” Tom says, winking.

“Right.”

That is one of Tom’s most recurrent theory, Sherlock being just as in love with him but not saying anything about it. Stupid, obviously.

“Are you sleeping in the same bed again tonight?”

“Don’t know,” John replies, having wondered the same thing all too much today.

“If that’s the case,” Tom says, leaning closer. “We need to establish a strategy, a plan of action.”

John laughs, “A strategy?”

“Well yeah. How to get you idiots to finally do something!”

“Outch,” John says.

Tom ignores him, “Start with some pillow talk, whispered confession in the dark, romantic stuffs you know.”

“Pillow talk,” John repeats, deciding it was best to let him talk.

“Then, when the mood is set, you get closer to him, it doesn’t have to be that subtle, he’ll clearly be wanting the same thing anyway.”

“Of course.”

“After that, I trust you to know what to do.”

Another wink and John gives in to a full body laughter, “You have quite the imagination.”

“Laugh away,” Tom says, leaning back against his chair. “For all we know he already bought a new mattress.”

John ignores his heart sinking down his chest.

“But if he hasn’t, then anything’s possible mate.”

“I should go back to work,” John says, not exactly sure what his reply should be.

“You’ll let me know?”

John ignores him, gathering the remains of his lunch and getting up.

“John,” Tom calls out, looking offended. “You’ll tell me. Right?”

“Enjoy your lunch, Tom.”

He walks out of the cafetaria, laughing at one last half-yelled “John”.

Afternoon drags out so very slowly. With his head filled with their conversation, John can’t seem to stop glancing at the clock, wondering whether Sherlock is currently looking for a new mattress, maybe even replacing his old one while John is silently cursing against time. It would be logical, absolutely logical for him to do so. After all, John is the one who said they took care of it today. Idiot as he is.

He leaves the clinic at exactly six pm, deciding a cab will be faster than the subway. He checks his phone a dozen times, open a new text message twice without ever typing anything before finally pocketing it again. Leg bouncing, he watches the building blurring away, teeth worrying at his lower lips. Another eternity passes before the cabbie finally parks in front of Baker Street and John is out in a matter of seconds.

He makes his way up just as fast only to feel his entire body crash down with disappointment when he finds the flat empty. Has Sherlock come back at all today? He gets rid of his shoes and jacket, heading for Sherlock’s bedroom first. Something warm spreads throughout his chest at the sight of the green hole in Sherlock’s mattress. He remains standing there longer than he should, deciding that no matter if Sherlock comes home with a new mattress or not, he won’t say anything, won’t comment either.

No strategy. No plan of action. He’s going to let things unfolded in front of them and see.

For now it means dinner. Feeling more settled now, John sends out the text he’s been willing to, getting a quick reply confirming that Sherlock would be there to eat with him in a little less than a hour. So John gets to work, chopping carrots, potatoes and leek after putting on a playlist on his phone. The music helps clearing his mind for the next forty minutes, melodies after melodies making it easier to focus on his knife and pan than the empty bed upstairs and who might lie there later tonight.

When Sherlock emerges in the kitchen, coat and scarf still one, and - yes - empty handed, John is almost ready for the wave of relief washing over him.

“Smells good,” Sherlock says, getting closer to peek at the pan.

“I thought a nice dinner was due, don’t you think?”

Sherlock hums his agreement, remaining exactly where he is, watching, for another long moment. John doesn’t pay more attention to him than usual. Sherlock tends to watch closely each time cuisine is involved, not quite often doing it himself, but apparently enjoying the making of it all.

“What did you do today?” John asks eventually.

“I’ll tell you over dinner,” Sherlock replies, falling back into movement. “I need a shower.”

“It’ll be ready soon.”

Sherlock is already on his way to the bathroom, stopping, “Oh. I forgot.”

John turns around, finding Sherlock staring at his bed.

“It’s alright.”

Sherlock meets his eyes, the two of them staring at each other from across the room, before nodding and disappearing into the bathroom. John sets down the table quickly, stopping the music and putting the main dish on the table. He sits down, taking advantage of the few minutes left to check his mail and ends up saving one that seems quite urgent.

When Sherlock comes out, he’s already changed into night clothes, sitting down and immediately going for the pan.

“Have you eaten at all today?”

“No time.”

“Take it slow then,” John warns, letting Sherlock serve him too. “Thanks. So, today?”

“Molly called with some new bodies,” Sherlock start to explain. “I wanted to text my theories about nails, remember?”

John nods.

“Once I collected all I needed, I still had to process everything and it took a bit longer than I thought.”

“Fun day at the morgue, then,” John says, smiling.

“You can say it was, yes,” Sherlock replies, smiling all the same. “The clinic?”

“The usual,” John says, not wanting to linger on the subject. “I was looking at some mails we receive, and there’s one you need to see.”

The rest of dinner is a mixed of cases, quiet laugher and deduction on which disease has the patient who left a stain on John’s shoulder - amazing. By the time Sherlock offers to take care of cleaning everything, John has almost forgotten the whole bed situation. Almost. He spends half of his shower and evening routine wondering if Sherlock will sleep at all tonight, and the other half wondering what he’ll do if he does. The kitchen is empty when John is finished, just as the living room, and when John comes to realise it could only mean Sherlock is already in his bed, air leaves his lungs entirely. He takes the stairs up slowly, each sound of his step echoing with his pounding heart.

Only the bedlight is on when he gets in, Sherlock looking down at his phone on the left side of the bed. He doesn’t look up and John thanks him silently, getting rid of his robe and pushing the cover away on his side. He sits down first, his back to Sherlock, and places his watch and phone on the bedside table. He allows himself a moment more before lying down, stiff as a stick on the mattress.

“Should I turn off the lights?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t mind,” John replies, having already closed his eyes anyway.

Darkness comes except from the splash of light of Sherlock’s phone. John listens to him typing for what could be hours or seconds, who cares really. Still, he’s not ready when it suddenly stops, complete darkness surrounding them. Sherlock settles down his back, the mattress moving with him, just as John’s body. Silence, again.

Pillow talk.

Easy to say. Clearly Tom has no idea of Sherlock’s idea on small talk. John better not imagines what he’ll think of pillow talk. If sleep hadn’t been a problem the night before, it seems that it is far from happening now. John had read enough books, seen enough movies, had enough fantasies to know what bedsharing implied and what it could turn to so very easily. Having no control over his own body while asleep is suddenly all he can think about, dozen of scenarios running through his head, all of them ending in some compromising position.

Just need to stay still, fall asleep scared.

Sherlock’s breathing is quiet and regular next to him, lying just as still. John wonders what they must look like. He finds himself smiling, picturing Tom storming in and pointing how wrong it all is. He shakes the smile off quickly. He can’t let himself relax too much. Strong will got him this far, it will get him through the night too without having to explain to Sherlock how desperately in love with him he is in the morning.

In control.

Time blurs into small eternities, and it’s with the puzzling thought of no exchanged “Goodnights” that sleep finally takes John.

 

•

 

“John! Wake up! John!”

For the second time in two days, John wakes up with a startle. “What?”

“The case, hurry up.”

John blinks quickly, waking up properly, “The case?”

“Yes, the case.” Sherlock is standing by the bed. “You showed me yesterday.”

“Oh,” John yawns. “The case.”

“Dress up quickly, we have to go.”

John rubs his face slowly, sighing. He knows better but to complain about the time.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sherlock, apparently pleased, heads back downstairs, leaving him alone. John falls on his back again, sighing louder. So much for compromising positions. He doesn’t linger on the slight disappointment washing over him, getting to his feet instead and picking an outfit for the day. Sherlock is pacing when he gets downstairs. His phone in hand, he looks up while John puts on his shoes.

“Urgent then?” He asks.

“Quite,” Sherlock replies. “Quentin, after sending us that email yesterday, found out that his flatmate’s mother in France hadn’t heard from him in days.”

“So he really isn’t on holiday,” John concludes.

“It appears so,” Sherlock smiles.

John can’t help but smile too. The first few instants of a new case always made them both feel a bit too happy, the promise of what’s yet to come more than exciting. If Sherlock usually didn’t cared to hide it, John had learned that showing too much excitement didn’t go well with their clients.

“Where to then?”

“Quentin agreed to meet at their flat,” Sherlock says on their way out. “If Timothy really disappeared, his bedroom is a good place to start.”

“Do you think it will takes us to France?” John asks once in the cab.

“Maybe,” Sherlock replies, smiling even more now.

John sighs happily, earning an eyes roll from Sherlock he chooses to ignore entirely. It doesn’t take long to arrive at the client’s flat. The moment Sherlock steps out of the cab, John notices the almost imperceptible change in his attitude and posture. The chase has began.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” Quentin greets them, waiting at the door. “Thank you for coming.”

“Where’s Timothy’s room?” Sherlock asks, shaking the man’s hand quickly.

“Over there,” Quentin says, pointing to a door down the hallway.

Sherlock heads there without another word, leaving John alone with their more than worried client.

“So, Quentin, tell me,” he says, pacing around the living room. “When did Timothy leave?”

“Five days ago. He was supposed to go see his mother in France. He left with his suitcase and everything, but I haven’t had any news since.” Quentin stops, rubbing a hand over his face. “ We usually text everyday. It’s not like him not to reply. I tried to contact his mum a few times but turns out he cancelled at the last minute.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t just changed his mind and went somewhere else?”

“No. He would have told me. I know him, he’s my best friend. He would have told me.”

John smiles, looking at the severals pictures of the two man all over the walls, “How long have you two been flatmate?”

“Two years,” Quentin replies. “But we’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

“That’s a long time.”

“See,” Quentin says, sounding more and more alarmed. “He would have said something if he’d just changed his mind.”

“Did you contact the police?”

“Of course, they said we needed to wait 48 hours.”

“Idiots,” Sherlock says, startling them both. “We need to go to St Pancras.”

“Should we call Lestrade?” John asks on their way out. “Quentin seems to be really worried. This might be more serious than we thought.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock replies, having stopped a cab already.

“Wait,” John smiles. “Have you solved it already?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, simply smiling back at him and sitting next to Quentin. The cab ride is strangely silent, Quentin biting nervously at his fingers, Sherlock engrossed as always on his phone, and so John keeps to himself too. He wonders what exactly Sherlock managed to see in that flat that he didn’t, or was it only in Timothy’s bedroom? He’s used, by now, to all of Sherlock’s tricks, and yet he finds himself waiting impatiently for the big finale.

“Do you think something’s happened to him at the station?” Quentin finally ends up asking, the question having obviously turned him even more worried.

“No,” Sherlock replies immediately. “I think Timothy had a change of… mind.”

“What do you mean?”

The cab stops just as Quentin is about to grab Sherlock’s arm and demand an answer. As usual, Sherlock is out first. John makes sure Quentin is able to stand and follow before heading after him. They find him already talking to a woman at one of the counter, and John suppresses a smile when he hears the high ton of Sherlock’s acting voice.

“-ou see, he can’t be alone, he’s not well. Oh, my poor brother, I shouldn’t have let him go by himself, I should have known better, I’m such a idiot. What if something happened to him, what if I never see him aga-”

“Sir, sir,” the now alarmed woman says. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can do something. What’s your brother’s name, and where was he supposed to go?”

“Timothy Tournier and France, Paris Gare du Nord.”

Quentin, stunned to complete silent next him, glances at John with wide eyes. John smiles, shaking his head and whispering, “No worries.”

“Alright mister Tournier, it appears that your brother changed his ticket for one to Leeds instead. That’s all I can found out from here.”

“Thank you, thank you! It’s already a lot. Can I have three tickets for the next train leaving for Leeds please.”

Quentin waits until they far enough to exclaim, “Leeds? Why? We know noone there!”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” John replies, having taken the tickets. “Our train leave in less than 10 minutes, we got lucky there.”

Or not, he thinks, watching Sherlock’s triumph smile.

“Hurry up, John!”

They board the train barely two minutes before departure, Quentin having gone silent again. None of them talk much for the entire travel actually. Sherlock, having clearly found something interesting enough there, spends the next two and half hours on his phone. John takes advantage of the peace and quiet to close his eyes and rest. Somehow managing to shut down every distracting thoughts, he ends up teasing the edge of sleep far enough to actually feel a bit more alarmed when they arrive.

“Where to now?” Quentin asks immediately.

“Now I need you to think,” Sherlock replies. “You said it yourself, the two of you have known each other for years. Where would Timothy go in a city he’s never been to before? What’s the first thing he would do?”

Quentin sighs, sounding desperate, before looking back sharply at them, “Is there a city museum? He loves those, he said once every towns should have one.”

John searches the internet quickly, “Yes, Millennium Square.”

Another cab, another silence. Quentin is the first out this time, probably driven by the thought of finding Timothy first. John gets them entrance tickets, both Sherlock and Quentin scanning the few people already inside the museum.

“We should each search a gallery,” John proposes, giving everyone their tickets. “We’ll go faster this way.”

“I’ll ask around if anyone’s seen him,” Sherlock says, searching in his emails Timothy’s picture.

“I’ll start by the- Timothy!”

Quentin is off and running toward a tall, blond man in less than a second, all but knocking the man - Timothy, to the floor. John and Sherlock follow quickly, Quentin’s scream earning them glares and sighs.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Quentin?”

“I was worried sick!”

The both of them are still on the floor, Timothy cearly not yet processing that his friend is actually here and Quentin yelling louder and louder. The scene could have almost been funny if not so heartbreaking.

“How did you find me?”

“I’ll be answering that,” Sherlock says bringing Quentin back to reality doing so.

“Fuck,” he swears, becoming suddenly aware of his current position and standing up. “Fuck.”

“We got that, yes,” John says, helping Timothy to get back up. “Hi, I’m John.”

“Hello. Who are you exactly?”

“Quentin asked us to find you,” Sherlock replies in his place. “Actually, he asks the police first, but they believed you had just ran away, which you did.”

“I did not ru-”

“When I first read Quentin’s email,” Sherlock cuts him. “I immediately realise this case could be an interesting one. Not in the sense that it would be difficult to find you, not at all really, but humanly interesting.”

John holds back a sigh of surprise.

“See, it was obvious from the start,” Sherlock continues, “and even more after looking at your flat and rooms-”

“Rooms?” Quentin asks.

“-That there was something more than just a client looking for his best friend. First of all, Quentin’s whole attitude was too much for just a friend, then there was the pictures - just the two of you, at home or traveling, even in each of your bedroom. Finally, there was you,” Sherlock says, pointing to Timothy.

“Me?”

“Why did you change your destination at the last minute? Without telling anyone?”

Timothy glances at Quentin, then John and back to Sherlock, “I…”

“I could tell you why,” Sherlock says, sounding a little softer all the sudden. “But I’m sure you’d like to be the one.”

Timothy glances back at his friend, his face breaking into something much sadder, “I was drunk,” he says, almost too quietly. “I was drunk and you had talked about that girl all day, and I realise I couldn’t do this anymore.”

“Who? Angie?” Quentin asks, frowning.

“Yes, all you did was talk about asking her out, forcing me to listen.”

“I don’t understand,” Quentin says, taking a step toward him. “You never said anyth-”

“I know,” Timothy exclaims. “I never say anything, always keep my mouth shut but it was too much. I figured that leaving for France for a few days wasn’t going to change anything, but leaving for good, maybe… maybe it would help me get over you.”

John, too speechless to react in any ways, doesn’t notice Sherlock backing away slowly. He catches his eyes, getting the silent message clearly, and slowly, he turns his back to the two men, walking away.

“Humanly interesting?” He asks once they’re far enough, Sherlock only shrugging in response.

John risks another glance back, finding Quentin and Timothy lost in a kiss, and he smiles, wondering how and when Sherlock became so invested in other people.

“When did you know for real?”

“The email,” Sherlock replies. “I got confirmation of Timothy’s feeling in their flat.”

“Brilliant,” John smiles, watching an answering one bloom on Sherlock’s lips. “Home?”

“Home.”

The entire journey back home - train first, cab then - isn’t spent in silence this time. Sherlock, being his usual self, talks and talks about each clues that lead him to his conclusion, with John listening avidely. 221b feels like well deserve rewards after spending too much time travelling. Too lazy to do anything, John orders take away for dinner, eating mostly alone while Sherlock starts yet another experiment.

John tries to focus on a movie after but gives up quickly, eyes falling shut all too often. He heads for the shower, making it an efficient one and stumbles onto Sherlock waiting outside the door when he’s finished.

“We didn’t took care of the mattress situation.”

John looks towards the bedroom as he says, “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock repeats, taking John’s place in the bathroom.

“Are you coming to bed now?” John asks before he can close the door.

“Yes.”

They stare at each other just a little too long. John clears his throat, looking down and giving up on finding anything else to say. He nods twice instead, fleeing. The bed upstairs is just as they left it this morning, unmade and undeniably baring the traces of both their bodies. John gets to his side, breathing in and out slowly. Treacherous as always, time flies by, and before John can totally assimilate the fact that they’ll be spending another night together, Sherlock is climbing up the stairs and joining him.

“Anything planned for tomorrow?” John asks, refusing to simply watch in silence as Sherlock gets into his bed.

“Nothing in particular, no,” Sherlock replies, having now lied down and turned off all the lights.

John licks his lower lips, finding it suddenly unbearable to just go to sleep.

“You could have told me there wasn’t a chance we were going to France today,” he settles on saying.

“I needed you to work this case with me,” Sherlock replies.

“I would have no matter what,” John smiles. “Idiot.”

Sherlock chuckles, John marveling at the sound for a long moment.

“We need to take holidays,” he says.

“Holidays?”

“Yes. If cases aren’t going to take us abroad, holidays will.”

Sherlock remains silent.

“I’ve been to Paris once,” John continues, “but never to Province.”

“You’ll like it,” Sherlock replies.

John resists the urge to roll to his side. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his voice lower and lower. “It’s quiet but busy at the same time. People are welcoming, maybe too welcoming. It’s also strangely beautiful.”

“Strangely?”

“You’ll see.”

“Are you saying you’ll take me on holiday there?” John asks, unable to stop smiling now.

“I’m saying… maybe,” Sherlock replies, his own smile obvious.

“Good enough.”

Silence fills the room, comfortable and light. John stares up at the ceiling, wishing he could be silently studying Sherlock’s profile instead.

“What you did today,” he finally whispers. “It was good.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

John closes his eyes, still smiling. It only occurs to him as he drifts off to sleep that he is much, much too relaxed.


	3. Chapter 3

John wakes up in the center of his bed, a head on his chest, a body pressed to his side and curls tickling his nose. Sherlock, still soundly asleep, is snoring softly against him, entirely unaware of John’s current state of both amazement and urgency. Lying as still as possible, he closes back his eyes, breathing in deeply without any control over his own actions. A - giant - part of himself is currently registering every point of contact between his and Sherlock’s body, from the tangled mess that are currently their legs to the all too familiar coco scent of his shampoo. The other part is too busy screaming for him to get up and run before Sherlock wakes up.

_Breathe._

Aware that any movements could wake Sherlock up, John forces himself to relax as much as he can. How many times did he dared to imagine such intimacy? All too much, if he’s being honest with himself. Whether they just spent the night together or not, each and everyone of John’s fantasies end up with a quiet, soft intimacy he’s been dying to share with Sherlock since, well since the very beginning really.

He shifts, ever so slightly, burying his nose deeper into Sherlock’s curls and breathing in deeply. He always wondered, thoughts running in the back of his mind now and then, what kind of lover, curdler, kisser Sherlock would be. To find him, sleeping and clutching to him this way, only makes John crave _more_. He could get used to it. Very quickly.

Before realising he’s even doing so, John copies Sherlock’s breathing, the two of them slowly melting into one.

He wakes up again to the sound of violin being played downstairs. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, chasing the ghost of Sherlock’s body against his. Having no idea how long he ended up sleeping, John figures just a few minutes more won’t hurt. He rolls to his stomach, looking for Sherlock’s pillow but finding that it doesn’t compare to thick, deep curls. Still, the fantasy of this morning lives on just a little longer.

Then, reality sinks back in.

Sherlock is standing between their chairs when he gets downstairs, playing his violin with eyes closed and his head lightly thrown back. He doesn’t acknowledge John’s presence except for some high notes following him all the way to the kitchen. The clock announces John it is no longer time for breakfast, and so he sets up for making them both some brunch. The violin doesn’t stop for the next forty minutes, melodies after melodies. John picks up on three of his favorite ones, humming along while frying toast and chopping tomatoes. By the time he’s done setting the table, the violin ends, Sherlock walking to the kitchen, tall, smiling, breathtakingly beautiful.

“Hungry I hope,” John smiles back, already sited.

“I can be convinced.”

“I’ve made those toasts you love,” John offers, giving him the toasts in question and not bothering to hide his growing smile when Sherlock takes two. “Slept well?”

Sherlock nods, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

“Why the violin this morning?”

“I haven’t played in a while,” Sherlock replies.

“It was a nice way to wake up,” John says, keeping to himself how he would have prefered finding him in bed still. “Have you decide what to do today?”

“Finish up on my experiment now that I have all the data I need.”

“I’m probably going to start writing down yesterday’s case,” John says. “I still can’t believe they spent all those years growing up together, even living together, and never said a word about their feelings.”

“I can,” Sherlock replies, standing up to place his plate in the sink.

“You do?”

“Yes,” he says, turning on the water and washing his dishes. “It had to get out at some point. Timothy was probably only trying to protect himself by leaving.”

“That was stupid,” John replies. “Surely they would have realised at some point their shared feelings.”

“And risk to damage everything they have?”

“If one of them would have just say someth-” John falls silent, _how ironic_. “What Timothy did was reckless, but at least it got them there.”

Sherlock doesn't reply, turning the water off and wandering off to the living room again. John waits, a minute, two but it appears Sherlock is done with brunch. Deciding his own dishes can wait, John heads for the bathroom, desperate to clear his head. Too much hope had always been dangerous, and waking up pressed against Sherlock is definitely - _definitely_ , too much hope right now. He only needs to put things back in order inside his own head and focus on not messing it all up.

With a somehow clearer mind, the rest of the afternoon blurs out into something quiet but oddly comfortable. They do not speak for what could be hours, simply existing in each other presence, a glance or cough reminding the other _I’m here_. John gives up on writing down the case, picking up a new book instead and letting his imagination take him somewhere else. Sherlock doesn’t move much from his chair, writing and writing. Night is falling by the time John finishes his book, closing it with a content sigh and looking up to find Sherlock just as engrossed in his notes than hours ago.

He lets himself give in to a silent contemplation. He can only see Sherlock’s profile from here, curls falling on his foreheads from the lack of proper care this morning. John suddenly regrets not having tried to trapped some between his fingers this morning. He lets his eyes trail down to Sherlock’s lips, licking his own slowly. Those, right there, those two full lips are everything John wants. If he’d just get to kiss Sherlock everyday for the rest of his life, he’ll know he’d live the best life he ever could. Even just one kiss, one press of their lips lasting forev-

“What is it?”

John looks up sharply, finding Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him.

“Nothing.” He doesn’t look away, swallowing slowly. “Are you finished?”

“I think so, yes,” Sherlock replies, eyes searching now.

“It’s already late,” John says. “Hungry?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Me neither.” John finally breaks eyes contact. “But I wouldn’t say not to drink.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, simply going for the cupboard above the sink and bringing back scotch and two glasses with him. He pours them both some before sitting in his chair, raising his glass towards John’s and taking a first sip. John remembers to do the same, not watching Sherlock’s lips closing around the glass. The liquor is warm down his throat, his head already buzzing.

“Maybe eating would have been a good idea,” he says, smiling inside his own glass.

“You’ve only took one sip, John.”

John laughs, taking another.

“We still haven’t take care of your mattress,” he says, not looking up.

“It’s becoming a habit,” Sherlock replies. “Forgetting.”

They fall silent, only the faint sound of the street filling the room. Sherlock pours himself another glass just as John finishes his own.

“Earlier,” he says, “you said Timothy was trying to protect himself by leaving.”

“Hm.”

“What did you mean by that?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply just yet, eyes fixed on his drink, and his voice is barely above a whispers when he finally says, “It was written all over their home, in every picture or notes on the fridge. Timothy spends his days in that flat, living with the person he feels so strongly about, and has to watch him see and date other people. Of course leaving was his only solution.”

“Not the only one, no,” John replies, refusing to let Sherlock think so. “Leaving is running away from the problem. Quentin was being just as stupid trying to deal with his own feelings by dating other people, exactly like running away.”

“You think they should have try,” Sherlock says, finding his eyes again. “Risk their friendship?”

“I’m not saying it would have been easy,” John replies, knowing all too well just how hard it all can be. “It’s just that, in their case, talking would have save them years.”

“In their case,” Sherlock mumbles, turning the liquor in his glass.

John considers a third drink, but already blaming the first two for what he already dared to say, he decides against it. He looks back up to find Sherlock staring at their feet, his own glass forgotten on the table next to him.

“Would you play some more?” John asks, whispering.

Sherlock glances at him, then his violin, “Now?”

John hums, leaning back against his chair and letting his lips stretch into a smile when Sherlock stands up. Music fills the air, and with his eyes never leaving Sherlock, John lets all the love he feels for this brilliant man submerge him once more. Only when breathing properly gets harder and harder does he allows himself to close his eyes, letting the music lull him to the edge of sleep.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice is soft, softer than John has ever heard before.

“You should go to bed.”

“Are you coming?” he asks, the words out before he can do anything about it.

Sherlock is close, so very close, when John blinks awake.

“Yes.”

Ghosts of Sherlock’s melodies follow them all through their evening routines and all the way up to John’s bedroom. They don’t bother with turning the lights on at all this time, slipping under the covers without exchanging a word. If the sudden closeness is new, neither of them comment on it. John, already drifting out, wishes he could breathe Sherlock in again, just one deep breath.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Hmm,” John sighs, his entire body melting into the mattress. “Goodnight.”

•

John wakes up feeling incredibly warm. It only takes a second to identify the source of such heat, Sherlock’s entire body being currently pressed against his own. Unlike yesterday, John is the one who traveled all the way to the left side of the bed, having locked one arm around Sherlock’s wait and brought his back directly against his chest. Slowly, he register the plant of Sherlock’s foot against his, his nape barely millimeters away from his mouth and the addictive scent of him. John smiles, unable not to do so, and closes back his eyes. He silently thanks his mind and body for the lack of morning erection, letting him enjoy a few minutes more of _this_ before having to detach himself from Sherlock.

His hand has slipped under Sherlock’s shirt, his palm being currently pressed directly against the bare skin of his chest, and John has to resist the urge to stroke. He focuses on Sherlock’s heartbeat instead, slow and regular. His smile grows with each beat, intangible proof of the realness of this moment. Daring the smallest of movement, he brushes, ever so softly, his nose against Sherlock’s nape. Shivers run through Sherlock’s body, and John marvels at the fact of being able to feel them. One more stroke, with just the caress of his lips this time.

“Mrs Hudson is coming up.”

Somehow not surprised of Sherlock’s current state of wake, John can only remain silent. Just for a few more seconds.

Three knocks on the door, “John? Are you awake?”

“Still in bed, Mrs Hudson,” John reply loud enough for her to hear.

“I’m sorry dear, I’ve looked for Sherlock but he isn’t here. Did you know there is a hole in his mattress?”

“I know, yes.” John smiles. “What it is Mrs Hudson?”

“There’s a man at the door, asking for Sherlock.”

“Client?”

“I’m not sure. He introduced himself as an old friend of Sherlock.”

John frowns, “A friend?”

“He said his name was Victor Trevor.”

Sherlock sits up abruptly, forcing John to roll on his back.

“Should I let him in?”

John stares at Sherlock, still and barely breathing.

“Give me ten minutes,” John says, “and tell him to come up.”

“Alright dear.”

John waits until the sound of her footsteps fade away before asking, “Who is it?”

Sherlock stands up, reaching for his dressing gown and heading for the door, “I’ll say I was in the shower.”

John watches him leave the room, out off words. He remains lying there for another minute or two, trying to process what happened exactly. Curiosity getting the best of him, he ends up hurrying to put on an old jean and a shirt, climbing down the stairs all the way to 221C. A tall, tan, handsome man is waiting there, looking at him and smiling.

“You must be John, I’m Victor.”

“Hi,” John says, shaking the hand Victor is offering. “Mrs Hudson said you were a friend of Sherlock?”

“Yes, back in college,” Victor replies.

John remains still for a moment too long, Victor clearing his throat.

“He should be out of the shower now,” John hurries to say, moving away to let Victor pass. “Come on up.”

“Thank you,” Victor says, climbing the stairs and John following not far behind.

Sherlock is already sitting in his chair when they arrive, his hair wet.

“Victor,” he only says, standing up, and to John’s horror, accepting the hug Victor embraces him in.

“Sherlock, it’s good to see you.”

They part, finally, and John forces both of their attention back to him, “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, thank you.”

John casts a quick look at Sherlock who seems too focused on this Victor to notice, and disappears in the kitchen. He keeps an ear out for anything that might happen in the other room. From here he can only see Sherlock’s back, turned to him, and Victor, just as tall and still too close. He hurries to get three cups ready, pouring coffee with shaking hands.

“There you go,” he says, trying his best to smile.

“Thank you, John,” Victor says, having not lost his own - damn, smile.

Sherlock accepts his cups without a word.

“Let’s sit,” John offers, nodding towards the sofa.

Sherlock and Victor both sit down there, leaving John on the chair.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks eventually, not having touched his coffee.

“I find myself facing some problems at work,” Victor replies, looking only at him. “So I thought it was time to catch up.”

“Problems?”

“Someone is framing me,” Victor explains. “The police is saying I’ve stole millions of dollars which, of course, I haven’t.”

“Why would anyone frame you for this?” John asks, glad to remind them both of his presence.

“Working in a company such as mine, you have to make enemies.”

“Company?” Sherlock asks.

“Goldman and cie, private bank.” Victor sighs, actually looking desperate. “I really need your help, Sherlock. I know we haven’t talked in years, but I know I can trust you to find out who’s trying to get me arrested.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says after a beat of silence.

“Thank you,” Victor says, laughing with relief. “Thank you so much.”

“I’ll need to see the accusation,” Sherlock replies. “Your files and all that could innocent you.”

“Of course, yes. I can’t take you to the bank, but I can bring them here in less than a hour if that’s alright?”

Sherlock nods, getting to his feet.

“That’ll be perfect.”

“I’m going to get them now then.” He stands up too, leaving his cup on the table. “Thank you for the coffee John.”

John offers him his best smile, nodding.

“I should take your number,” Victor says on his way out. “In case I’m not sure what to bring back exactly.”

John holds back a snort, forcing himself to breathe out deeply. Sherlock, of course, gives the number immediately, walking Victor out of the flat. John remains alone, sitting in his chair with a coffee he hasn’t touched, wondering what the hell just happened exactly. It takes Sherlock another full minute before reappearing.

“Victor,” John says, searching for Sherlock’s eyes without success. “College friend.”

“Was that a question?”

“No.”

Sherlock walks to the table, gathering papers and books, “We should make room for what he’ll bring back with him.”

“Why are you no longer friends?”

“I don’t know.”

John snorts, “Right. He seems to remember you quite clearly.”

Sherlock finally looks at him, almost daringly, “I remember him too, John.”

“I need a shower,” John says, knowing all too well when to walk away from his own anger. “And a coffee for that matter.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, continuing to sort his papers in piles.

Shower, as it turns out, doesn’t help at all. He should know better now, his jealousy having always been _the_ problem when it comes to Sherlock. But still, watching the two of them, in appearance so alike and with a commun past John isn’t aware of, makes it all a thousand time worse. He can’t just stand there, watching in the background the happy reunion. He needs to get out and calm down.

Victor, thank God, isn’t back yet when he gets out of the bathroom. Sherlock is staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t turn around when John comes into the room, nor when he puts his jacket and shoes on.

“I’ve taken an extra day at the clinic,” he explains. “I’ll be back around seven.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“You can call if you need any help,” John makes sure to remind him.

Still no answer. Anger building up again, he grabs his keys and heads out without a goodbye. He purposely doesn’t look up once out, not willing to know whether Sherlock is still there, watching. The whole way to work, John tries to get Victor out of his head, and especially all that he was and could still be.

Anna at the reception is surprised to see him, especially so that a doctor didn’t showed up. John assures her he can take care of his patients, glad to know he won’t have time to think too much all day. He spends the next seven hours keeping busy, not taking a moment to himself and skipping lunch to make sure Tom won’t know he’s there. He’s far from being in the mood for a chat or pep talk right now.

Time to head back home comes too quickly, even after taken three extra patients. He sends a quick text to Sherlock explaining he’ll be late but doesn’t get a reply. Deciding some fresh air could only be good, John gets out of the bus two stops before Baker Street, walking the last few streets. The living room window is open when he stops in front of 221B, the sound of two distinct voices making its way outside.

Bracing himself for more Victor, John reminds himself that Sherlock is absolutely free to have all the friends he want. He has nothing to say on the matter, no right to object. If Victor Trevor is going to be part of Sherlock’s life again, then John is going to welcome him in too.

Laughters greet him when he pushes the door open, both Sherlock and Victor sitting on the sofa and looking up at him.

“Celebrating?” John asks, looking down at the drinks on the table.

“Yes! Sherlock is certain he’ll be able to clear me tomorrow,” Victor says. “I only need to get him on more paper from the bank and it’s done.”

“Who was it then?”

“One of my colleague.”

“And past lover,” Sherlock adds.

“Yes, I take it he didn’t took our break up that well in the end,” Victor laughs.

John smiles, turning his back at them to hang his jacket and remove his shoes.

“How was your day?” Victor asks. “Sherlock told me you’re a doctor.”

“Yes, I am, and it was alright, thank you.”

He takes a look around the room, a right mess.

“We’ve order takeaway,” Sherlock says, forcing John to meet his eyes. “Thai.”

“Good, I’ll just go get cleaned up,” John says, fleeing.

He takes long enough doing so, taking the time to remember what he just told himself minutes ago. Victor is talking - again - in the living room, and John only understands bribes of a college story here and there. He gets out only when the doorbell rings, hoping to get an excuse to leave, but Sherlock is already looking for his wallet and going out.

“John,” Victor whispers as soon as Sherlock walks out of the room. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“What?”

Victor glances at the door and back to him, “Are you and Sherlock together?”

Taking the punch as quietly as possible, John gets out a weak, “No, why?”

_Please, don’t be the one who takes him away from me._

“Just making sure,” Victor replies, smiling again. “I didn’t want to try anything again if you two were a thing.”

John stands up, hiding his hands behind his back, “We’re not.” He focuses on his breathing, in and out, slow. “I’m going to go get what we need to eat.”

“Sure, yeah.”

Sherlock is back and sitting by the time John manages to face Victor again. He accepts the food Sherlock gives him silently, deciding he will excuse himself as soon as he’s finished. Stories of classes and old camarades are being shared all through dinner, Victor doing all the talking mostly. The worst of it all is how seriously Sherlock is listening to him, agreeing or not on his way of telling this or that story. When it becomes too much to bare, John stands up, yawning for the effect.

“I’m gonna head to bed,” he says, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow Victor.”

“Yes.”

“In that case,” he nods them both goodbye, heading for bathroom.

He doesn’t waste time, using the kitchen door to get upstairs, voices still filling the living room. Heart sinking, he retrieved his pillow from Sherlock’s side of the bed, lying down on his other side to avoid looking at the emptiness next to him. He closes his eyes, desperate to sleep and forget about today entirely, but all he can focus on are the hushed voices coming from downstairs. Minutes - that could be hours - passes before they become clearer, indicating Victor being on his way out.

Unable to suppress a wave of relief, John finds himself now expecting impatiently Sherlock’s footsteps up. He’s been sleeping for the last four nights and there’s a high chance he’ll soon decide sleep is boring again, but not tonight apparently. John doesn’t give any sign of being awake when Sherlock joins him, keeping the lights off and getting into bed almost too quietly.

Sleep find them both without having exchange a single word, and John can’t help but wonder how it was only this morning that they came so close to much more.

 

•

 

John wakes up alone the next morning, no longer facing the wall but Sherlock’s side of the bed. He wonders, just for an instant, how exactly they were lying when Sherlock woke up. He sure would have prefered to be the one waking up first. It takes a second more to remember the day before and Victor. Well aware of how much his attitude yesterday betrayed, John doesn’t waste another minute in bed. The last few days had been particularly perfect, bringing them closer than they had ever been, and he intends to make sure this Victor Trevor isn’t going to ruin it all.

“Sherlock?” He calls out once downstairs.

“Here.”

John walks over to his bedroom, finding Sherlock staring at his mattress, now on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“I figured it was time I took care of this,” Sherlock replies. “I called for a new one, it should arrive tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

John glances at Sherlock’s bed, where he would be sleeping, tomorrow. No longer in his.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the clinic today?”

“Hm, no,” John replies. “Gave me the day.”

“Good, you can help me get everything in order for Victor’s case.”

John almost doesn’t grimace at the name, “Sure. When is he bringing that last paper?”

“Tonight. I told him to spend the day at work today,” Sherlock says, leaning down to pick up the mattress. “Can you help me get this downstairs?”

“Sure.”

The two of them manage to get it down the stairs, staring in silence at the mattress. Maybe John could try and figure out exactly what burned that hole, make one into his own mattress next time.

“Did I smell toast in the kitchen?” John asks, anything but staring a second more at this thing.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock replies, meeting John’s eyes for the first time this morning. “Victor reminded me of this jam we used to buy, and he brought me some after lunch yesterday.”

“How nice,” John mutters under his breath.

The jam ends up being absolutely delicious, and John hates himself as he adds more to his third toast. He keeps an eye on Sherlock, already writing down notes while going through Victor’s papers.

“Was Victor in real troubles?”

“Not really,” Sherlock replies, not looking up. “That lawyer was clearly driven by resentment and did a poor job covering his trace.”

“How can I help?” John asks, deciding against yet another toast.

“Victor needs to have a solid case to present his associates,” Sherlock explains. “That means we need to be very detailed since they’re obviously idiots.”

John sits down, grabbing papers and pen, “Where do I start?”

Sherlock slides a few files towards him and in shared silence, they get to work. Writing down mostly numbers and dates, John makes sure to reread everything before putting it aside, knowing a single mistake could make it all invalid. Better make sure this Victor won’t need their help ever again. Lunch time passes without neither of them noticing, and it’s only when John’s stomach begins to make itself known that he checks the time.

“Break?” He offers, stretching.

“Sure,” Sherlock replies, abandoning his chair. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“There not much left now, it shouldn’t take more than a hour to finish.”

“What time is Victor supposed to come?”

Sherlock comes back with their two cups, handing John his, “Eight.”

“Why don’t we finish that documentary on BBC, “ John offers. “We’ll have time to finish all this later.”

Sherlock nods in agreement, moving to the sofa while John turns on the TV. He goes to sit down at his usual spot, noticing the unusual distance between them but not saying anything about it. He’s the one who acted weird the day before, and Sherlock has all the right to sit where ever he wants. They spend the next hours and a half learning about the first profilers and how the techniques have developed ever since. Sherlock, of course, spends most of the the documentary pointing out flaws but also taking notes on interrogation methods, a deep frown between his eyebrows that John can’t seem to stop staring at.

“We need to try some of these next time,” Sherlock declare ones the documentary is finished. “I’m sure Lestrade won’t mind.”

“He doesn't have much choice, does he?” John asks, laughing softly.

“He’ll thank us in the end, as always.”

“Not sure he thanked us the last time we earned him a meeting with his superior,” John points out, pushing the TV back against the wall.

“That’s just for show, John,” Sherlock sighs. “We solve case, surely the police is not going to punish him for doing his job. Unless, of course, they’re even stupider than I first thought. Which is highly probable now that I think of it.”

John laughs again, about to offer another cup of tea when three knocks echo in the flat.

“Yes?”

The door is being pushed open, Victor stepping in, “Hi, I got out much earlier than planned, so I thought I’ll come by.

John’s smile drops immediately, watching Sherlock standing up to meet him at the door.

“Do you have the document?”

“Yes,” Victor replies, handing it to him. “Here.”

“John and I aren’t finished yet,” Sherlock says, already lost in the lecture of the said document. “But you’re welcomed to stay. Tea?”

“No, thank you, just had some.”

“Sit down,” Sherlock offers, pointing to the sofa on his way back to the table.

John, pleased to no end that Sherlock is acting like himself again, chooses this moment to say, “Do you want to look at what we did so far?”

“Sure.”

John hands him the whole of their papers, enough to keep Victor busy and quiet for quite a while. He goes back to sit facing Sherlock, and takes all the rest of the files, letting him focus on the last piece only. They all work in silence. Remaining aware of the third person in the room, John keeps a close eye on him, not missing the several glances Victor keep casting towards Sherlock.

It isn’t until far later than Sherlock looks up and declares, “Done.”

Victor, who had finished a long time ago, lunches to his feet. He stops right behind Sherlock’s chair, much closer than necessary.

“And?”

“And with all this, you should be able to make your point without any chance of any lawyer finding flaws.”

Victor claps Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand remaining there afterward, “Thank you! You know what, let me buy you dinner to properly thank you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Sherlock replies.

“I insist,” Victor says, still not having moved his hand away. “You too are invited John, of course.”

“I’ll pass if you don’t mind,” John says immediately, the mere thought of watching Vicor flirt with Sherlock all evening making him sick.

Rather spend the evening alone, imagining the worse, than actually witness it.

“Come on, Sherlock, for old time sake,” Victor continues to insist.

John looks down from Victor’s smile to his hand and then Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him, searching.

“Alright,” Sherlock finally says, not looking away.

“Perfect! I know a very good place, Italian, they serve the best m-”

“Not Italian,” Sherlock cuts him.

“Sure, not a problem, we’ll find something else.”

Sherlock gets up, adding the last few papers to Victor’s file and handing it to him.

“Should we go now,” Victor offers. “Have a drink first?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, somehow managing to keep his eyes on John the whole time. “Sure you don’t want to come, John?”

“No, thank you.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Victor says, coming to shake his head and by doing so blocking Sherlock from John’s view. “Until next time.”

“Enjoy your evening,” John replies, adding just a little more pressure to the handshake than necessary.

Sherlock is the first out, quickly followed by Victor. After that, John is being left alone with nothing else but his vivid imagination.

He tries a movie first, managing to follow the first thirty minutes before giving up. Dinner comes next, reheat takeaway that taste just as bad as expected. A shower takes his full attention away for ten short minutes, images of Sherlock and Victor having dinner coming back full blast as soon as he lowers his guard. Very much aware that nothing could distract him anyway, he heads upstairs, knowing all too well it will take him hours to fall asleep anyway.

Different scenarios running through his head, most of them ending with Sherlock not coming back for the night, turn his stomach into knots. Victor’s intention couldn’t have been clearer, and surely Sherlock picked up on them, and yet still agreed to dinner. That could only mean he knows what he was getting into, right?

He should have gone, no matter the flirting.

_Fuck_.

He checks the time, 22:19. Another sigh. They should be at desert by now, no? That means less than a hour away from coming home. He can wait a hour. Right? Rolling to his side, he stares at Sherlock’s pillow, giving in to the urge of bringing it closer. He had woken up sleeping on it the very first night they share and it was already the last. And Sherlock wasn’t even there.

22:24.

“You’ve got to be jocking!”

He closes his eyes, wishing all thoughts away and practically falling off the bed at the sound of the front door closing. Heart racing, he pushes away Sherlock pillow and rolls to his back, hands clasped on his stomach. Footsteps to the first floor, kitchen, bathroom. Shower then, quick, teeth and pajamas. The stairs.

John breathes in deeply, letting all out just as the door open. _In control_. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing he isn’t going to fool Sherlock anyway. He waits until he’s under the cover, dozen of questions on his lips but none getting out.

What happened? Did they just had drinks and dinner? Maybe had a walk, talked and laughed and mo-

“Victor tried to kiss me.”

All the air leave John’s lungs.

“Oh.”

His hands are shaking.

“I stopped him.”

John bites down his lower lips.

“You did?”

Sherlock turns to his side, eyes burning John’s skin in the dark.

“What do you think of him?”

John panics, “He seems like a nice perso-”

“No,” Sherlock cuts him.

John breathes in deeply, trapped.

“Honestly?” He whispers.

“Honestly.”

John takes a deep breath, “I think he likes you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

“Do you like him?”

John chuckles, “No.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know already?”

Sherlock remains silent. Then,

“I don’t.”

John slowly turns to face him.

“Should I try to protect myself right now?” he asks, finding Sherlock’s eyes.

“That,” Sherlock replies. “Or talking.”

“Wouldn’t that be risky,” John whispers.

“Might not be,” Sherlock replies, breathing in deeply. “In this case.”

John considers his next words, _is it as simple as that in the end_?

“I don’t like that he likes you,” he finally says. “I don’t like that he had dinner with you tonight.”

“You chose not to come.”

“I chose not to watch the two of you flirt,” John corrects him.

“I did not flirt.”

“You didn’t?”

Sherlock shakes his head. They’re both smiling now.

“Good.”

John shifts closer.

“Why didn’t you flirt?”

“I didn’t want to,” Sherlock replies, ever so honest.

“What is it you want then?”

“Right now?” he asks, moving closer.

“Right now.”

Sherlock falls silent, neither of them looking away from the other’s eyes. John finds that he could do anything Sherlock asks him right now, anything he wants, he’ll provide.

“I want you to try,” Sherlock finally whispers, “and kiss me.”

John breaks into a smile, heart pounding against his chest.

“What if you stop me?” he asks, leaning in until he can feel Sherlock’s breath on his mouth.

“I won’t,” Sherlock replies, eyes falling shut.

John lets his own closed, bringing their lips together in a ghost of a kiss, barely a caress sending chills down his spine. Sherlock breathes out, loud, against his skin. John can feel his smile the next time he leans in, pushing more firmly against his mouth and earning a quiet moan in return. He pulls away, just far enough to be able to feel that one second when he goes back for more, absolutely certain that Sherlock will be there to give it to him.

They kiss, slow and soft, lips meeting and parting in a timeless dance neither of them wish to end.

Sherlock’s hand is shaking when it meets John’s arm, sliding up, up, up to his neck and remaining there. Owning. John kisses him just a little harder, pushing against those ever tempting lips only to have them open for him. His moan, this time, echoes in the room, loud and craving more. Sherlock’s hand moves to his nape and up his hair as their tongue meet again and again. And with the dazzling thought that he’s allowed to, John goes and touches him. Curls. As soft as expected, curling around his fingers.

“John.”

“That’s all I wanted too,” John breathes directly against Sherlock’s lips, refusing to move away. “That and for you to never sleep on that new mattress you order.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock says, looking back at him. “I wanted to upset you.”

“Why?”

“You slept with your back turned on me,” Sherlock replies.

“I was jealous,” John says.

“You were being an idiot.”

“Maybe,” John whispers, seeking another kiss.

“I want to sleep the way we woke up that fourth morning,” Sherlock says into the kiss.

“Were you awake before me then?” John asks, moving away just enough for Sherlock to roll to his other side.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Sherlock takes his hand, sliding it under his shirt and onto the exact same spot on his chest.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Long.”

John kisses his nape, properly this time.

“I didn’t realised it would be harder to kiss you this way,” Sherlock says after a moment.

“Harder,” John says, pulling away and waiting for Sherlock to title his head back. “Not impossible.”

Sherlock moans into the next kiss, and the one after that. They settle back against one another after a few more, John’s lips not leaving Sherlock’s skin for long. Leaving trail of kisses up and down his nape, he lets his thumb stroke Sherlock’s chest as well, slow and soft.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers.

Sherlock only hums in reply. John falls asleep still kissing him.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning welcomes John with small kisses along his fingers and palm. He stirs, sighing happily. Sherlock stops his tender treatment only to look back at him and claim his mouth in a smiling kiss which John obliges him gladly, sliding his hand back against his chest. It’s only in the middle of the third one that John realises the exact state he’s currently in, and the thought makes him go so very still. Sherlock, obviously, catches on.

“That wasn’t there last time,” he says, falling back into his previous position.

John’s erection brushes directly against his lower back, “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” John frowns.

“Why didn’t it happened last time?”

“I… don’t know,” John says, accepting that they’re apparently going to talk about this first thing in the morning.

“You didn’t desired…this before?”

John laughs, kissing his nape, “Oh no, I did. I guess I just had more control back then.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock replies, adding immediately, “Had control.”

“Oh,” John breathes, realising what he’s not saying. “You were…”

Sherlock nods. John swallows down slowly.

“And now?”

“Yes.”

Hot, bright desire pulses through John’s veins. He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing out slowly. 

“Is that alright?”

Another nod, accompanied with a shiver.

“Do you want to do something about it, together?”

Sherlock sighs loudly, “Are conversation about sex always this…”

“Awkward?” John smiles.

“Yes.”

“They tend to be at first yes,” John replies. “But it gets easier.”

“There’s something I oath to say then,” Sherlock says.

“I’m listening.”

It takes a few minutes more for Sherlock to speak again. John waits patiently with some more kissing, smiling when he feels Sherlock relax in his arms again.

“I’m not what Mycroft called me,” he finally says. “A virgin.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, you could say I am, in some areas, but I’ve engaged in sexual intercourse before.”

John licks his lips slowly, “Can I ask which areas you’re talking about?”

“Penetration,” Sherlock whispers. “Both giving and receiving.”

“Because that’s not something you think you’d enjoy?”

“No, that’s not… I just haven’t. Yet,” he adds.

John holds him tighter, “I have never been on the bottom, as they say, but I slept with a few men before.”

“When?”

“The army,” John replies. “Never anything serious.”

“I was in college the last time it happened,” Sherlock says. “Not with Victor.”

John releases the breath he was holding, laughing. “Am I that transparent?”

“Sometimes.”

They both laugh, John being suddenly reminded of his still aching erection. Sherlock gasps, his entire body shuddering.

“I’d like to take care of it,” he says, sending all of John’s sense on fire. “With you.”

“Yeah?

“Yes.”

John pulls away, urging Sherlock to roll back and face him, “In that case, I’d need a kiss first.”

They meet in the middle, already desperate for more. Sherlock’s hands find his neck again, and John depends the kiss, the impossible feeling of Sherlock’s entire body being pressed against his now making his head spin a little. 

“Are you ce-?” 

“No more questions,” Sherlock replies, chasing his mouth.

“No more question?” John laughs, only offering him his neck.

Sherlock leaves a trail of kisses down to his shoulder blade, “That’s a question.”

“What if it’s a very important question?” John teases, fingers sliding up and down his chest. 

Sherlock moans, tilting his head back and panting, “Only important questions then.”

“Good,” John smiles, kissing over his pulse point. “Because I have one.” 

“John,” Sherlock moans, hands sliding from John’s neck to his back, shaking.

“What do you want, love?”

Sherlock’s entire body shiver, his voice so very deep now, “I don’t know.”

“The first thing that comes to your mind,” John whispers, never stopping to kiss him. “What do you want?”

“You,” Sherlock replies.

Another wave of arousal washes through John, “What do you want?”

“I want to know the exact weight of your erection in my hand,” Sherlock blurs out, fingers tightening into fist in John’s shirt.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John moans, hips thrusting against Sherlock’s in their own volition.

“That” Sherlock cries out, hands flying to John’s arse and adding more pressure to their cocks. “I want that.”

John continues to rock slowly against him, the feeling of both Sherlock’s erection against his and the sounds filling the room adding more and more to his pleasure. He brings Sherlock’s mouth back to his, swallowing down each moans, gasps and cries. Keeping one hand pressed against Sherlock’s pounding heart, John slides the other up and up until he can thread each fingers through his curls. 

“John,” he pants against his lips. “John, I-”

Sherlock moves away abruptly, the lost of contact making John cries out. They’re both breathing heavily, red cheeks and swollen lips. John has never felt more alive.

“I just need a minute,” Sherlock says, sounding apologetic. 

“Everything’s alright?”

“I was about to… come, and it’s too soon,” Sherlock whispers, eyes falling shut.

“Sherlock,” John smiles, leaning back in to kiss over his closed eyelids. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It’ll take the edge off until later.”

Sherlock sighs, his breath warm against John’s mouth. 

“Only if we get to stay in your bed-”

“Our bed.”

“- our bed until the said later.”

“Deal,” John laughs, pulling away and meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “What do you want? Right now.”

“What we were doing was good,” Sherlock says, tongue darting out to wet his lips - and torment John. “More than good.”

“Let’s go back to that, then,” John smiles, shifting closer until they’re pressed together again and welcoming Sherlock’s moan of relief directly against his mouth. “You are so beautiful.”

“John,” Sherlock pants, already rocking back against him.

Without a doubt, John knows it won’t take long for either of them to fall over the edge. Gently, he pushes Sherlock down on his back, settling between his legs above him. Sherlock’s entire body arches on the mattress, head thrown back at the added pressure. John leans back in, kissing the offered neck and resuming his thrusts, each one more desperate than the other. Sherlock is soon shaking from head to toe, eyes open wide and fixed on his, and John knows he’s there, right there. 

He licks his lips, marvelling at the simple and yet breathtaking fact that he’s the one giving Sherlock all this pleasure, and says with all the love threatening to implode within him, “So beautiful, god, you’re so beautiful.”

Sherlock goes very still, crying out his name over and over again as he comes. John crashes their mouths together again, feeling his own orgasm slowly take over, spilling himself inside his pants. Seconds stretch around them, turning into something very close to forever, and John wishes nothing more but to live in that instant for the rest of his life. Sherlock is still shaking when he pulls away from the kiss, eyes still as wide and hands roaming all over John’s back. John leaves soft kisses along his jaw and neck, both hands in his curls now, massaging slowly. 

“Alright?” He whispers.

Sherlock nods, exhaling loudly, “I didn’t remember this being so powerful.”

John laughs softly, pulling away to look down at him, “That’s because I’m that amazing.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, lips stretching into a smile that John really can’t not kiss. 

“I propose that we get out of our clothes,” John says between two kisses. 

“Amazing and clever,” Sherlock replies in a whisper, not quite yet letting him go.

It takes some more kissing before they can detach themselves from the other, John rolling to his back and making a quick work of undressing, using his shirt to clean himself. He throws it all on the floor, turning on his side right after to look back at Sherlock. As expected, the whole nakedness of him is absolutely breathtaking. For long minutes, neither of them say a word, silently discovering the other’s body with their eyes only. John tries not to think of the softness around his middle, nor the too many marks on his skin, but watching the amazement in Sherlock’s eyes makes him think he’s doing quite okay.

Sherlock is the first to reach out, placing a hand on John’s chest and pushing until he’s on his back again. John watches him shift closer, still on his side, but now pressed back against him. 

“When was the first time you thought about this?” Sherlock asks after another beat of silence.

“Sex with you?”

Sherlock nods, his fingers now tracing lines across his chest.

“It’ll sound pathetic,” John warns.

“It won’t,” Sherlock replies, meeting his eyes.

John takes a deep breath, “Well, the very first night I slept in this bed, I was already wondering whether or not I could have invited you in my bed.”

Sherlock searches his eyes for a second, a smile blooming on his lips. John silently thanks you for the mentioning all the years that have passed since then. 

“What about you?” John asks in return.

“I only allowed myself to think about you that way two months after you moved in.”

“Allowed yourself?”

Sherlock nods, “I hadn’t felt the need nor envy to engage in sexual intercourse ever since college, but then there was you.”

Feeling suddenly proud of being the source of Sherlock’s sexual awakening, John can’t help but beam at him, “Me?”

“You,” Sherlock repeats. “With your ugly jumpers and your tendency to run after suspect and tackle them to the ground. Very distracting.”

“Is that so?” John smiles, teasing.

Sherlock nods again, leaning down to steal a brief kiss.

“There’s something I’d like to do,” he says after.

“Tell me,” John whispers.

“I’d like to collect data,” Sherlock replies, sounding just hesitant enough for John to fall a little more in love. “About you.”

“Sherlock, you can look and touch and explore as much of me as you want,” John replies, pulling him back down for another kiss. “You don’t ever have to ask.”

Sherlock shudders against him, kissing him one, two, three times more before pushing the rest of the cover away from their naked bodies. Begins then a very serious exploration of his body, lasting for what could be hours, interspersed by Sherlock’s observation of each of his nipple, his shoulder injury or the curve of his hips. Waves and waves of arousal washing over him, John starts to feel his cock harden again the instant Sherlock decide to use his mouth too, kissing various parts of him. 

Purposely or not - but probably, yes - Sherlock leaves the whole groin area for last, John being fully erect by the time he gets there. He doesn’t need to asks whether Sherlock is feeling just as comfortably exposed, having only to look down to get a eye full of his own erection. 

“Now I get to know,” Sherlock says, sounding all too serious as he cups John’s cock in his hand. “Perfect.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John moans, back arching.

“Is this one of the thing you thought about?” Sherlock asks, still not having let go.

“Yeah,” John pants, looking back at him. “And more.”

Sherlock raises an questioning eyebrow.

“I need you back up here,” John says, desperate to get his hands on him. “Now.”

Sherlock obliges him quickly, climbing half on top of him and claiming his mouth again. John lets his hand trails down his back and onto his arse, massaging slowly. With one hand still around him, Sherlock starts to stroke him. 

“Now that it is later,” Sherlock says into yet another kiss, “can I still say what I want?”

“Yes,” John moans.

“This,” Sherlock murmurs, “but with me on my back and you inside me.”

John cries out, his entire body shivering. “Are you sure?”

“That’s how I imagined it,” Sherlock replies, staring down at him. “The first time.”

John licks his lips, wanting absolutely nothing more but to fulfill each and everyone of Sherlock’s fantasies. 

“We’ll need some su-”

“In your top drawer,” Sherlock cuts him.

John frowns at him, unable to stop himself from smiling, “You’ve searched my room.”

“The first morning after I slept here,” Sherlock replies, looking smug.

“Wait, you searched my room while I was still sleeping?”

Sherlock nods, “Yes, and you should know, you stole my pillow as soons as I left the bed.”

John bursts into laughter, quickly followed by Sherlock. He kisses him again, needing to taste it directly from his lips. 

“I knew loving you would be full of surprise.”

Sherlock smiles down at him, this bright, rare smile of his taking all of John’s breath away.

“What?”

“You said you love me,” Sherlock whispers. “And you called me love, twice.”

“That might be a clue,” John says.

Another full laugh dies off into a kiss, slowly turning more and more demanding. John, ever so careful, turns them over to settle back between Sherlock’s open legs. They kiss for a long moment, arousal building up again. Trying to be as gentle as possible, John takes his time to properly prepare Sherlock, getting everything he needs and pushing one finger after the other inside him without ever looking away from his face. Sherlock, surprisingly, turns out to be an open book, emotions dancing in his eyes with each thrust of John’s fingers. The constant _John_ and _yes_ and _more_ only adds to this feeling of urgency slowly but surely taking over them both.

“One more question,” John says, crawling back on top of him. “Are you absolutely certain of this?”

Sherlock licks his lips, already panting, “Yes.”

John kisses him softly, “You can stop whenever you want to,” he says, lining up against Sherlock’s entrance. “It’s all up to you.”

“But you want this too right?” Sherlock asks, eyes searching his.

“God, yes,” John moans. “For so long.”

Sherlock moans, pushing against his cock, “Please.”

John pushes in slowly, so very slowly, watching Sherlock’s face tensing up. He kisses his cheeks, soft and reassuring. 

“Wait,” Sherlock breathes out after a while.

John does so, stroking Sherlock’s temple with both thumbs, “Alright?”

“I just need to get used to it,” Sherlock says, still panting. “I don’t want to stop.”

“We’ll go just as slow as you need,” John smiles, stealing a quick kiss. “I love you.”

Sherlock arched against him, gasping, “I love you.”

They kiss once more, Sherlock being the one to resume their movement. John pulls away, staring down to Sherlock’s eyes again. He finds himself whispering, surely nonsense, but Sherlock smiles and moans and calls out his name until finally John is fully inside him.

“Can we stay like this,” Sherlock asks, eyes closed. “Just for now.”

“You feel amazing,” John pants, burying his head against Sherlock’s neck.

“This is…” Sherock starts, moaning. “This is so much more than what I imagined.”

John laugh softly, his body shaking and making them both cry out. He can feel Sherlock growing harder again between their stomachs, and slowly, he slides one hand between them to help him get fully there again. Sherlock’s fingers dig into his back, crying out his name.

“Now,” he gasps after a while. “Move now.”

And so John does just that. Together, they part and meet over and over again. With both of his legs now wrapped around John’s back, Sherlock holds on to him the best he can, leaving John with the sensation of belonging to him and him only. Each thrust bringing them closer and closer, they don’t look away from the other’s eyes. John reads there this unconditional love he never thought he’d get to experience, and he loves, god, he loves this man with everything he has.

“John,” Sherlock cries out, his movement getting more and more out of control. “John.”

John dives in for another kiss, knowing he’s nearly there himself and needs to taste Sherlock’s orgasm directly from his lips. Another hard rock of his hips and Sherlock is coming, spilling between their bodies without John having to touch him. His orgasm seems to be lasting forever, John’s name filling the room. And with the added pressure of Sherlock’s compulsing muscles, John finds his own release deep inside him, still thrusting in and out until his entire body gives up on him.

He falls boneless on top of Sherlock, breathing heavily.

“I want to fall asleep again like this,” Sherlock murmurs, closing his arms more firmly around John’s back.

“I don’t object,” John replies, lips finding Sherlock’s neck. 

He can feel the exact moment Sherlock does find sleep, barely minutes later. John fights for a moment more, desperate to properly engrave all of just happened, all of that is still happening. He loses the battle in the middle of remembering Sherlock’s smiles, surrendering with the certainty of having won it all anyway. 


	5. Epilogue

“John, there’s someone here to see you!”

John looks up from his patient’s file just as Anna opens the door wider, letting Sherlock in.

“Sherlock!”

“I thought I’ll come by and see if you want to have lunch,” Sherlock says, stopping by his desk and leaning down for a kiss.

“Yes,” John smiles against his lips, keeping him close for another kiss. “Let me get my things.”

Sherlock pulls away, letting him stand up but not without another kiss first. 

“Weren’t you supposed to meet Molly today?” John asks.

“We finished earlier than planned,” Sherlock replies. “Turned out three of the hands were already necr-”

Three knocks on the door interrupts him.

“John, I have a question,” Tom says, walking in and stopping dead when noticing Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, this is Tom, a colleague,” John says, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Tom, this is Sherlock, my boyfriend.”

“Congratulations!” Tom immediately exclaims, a wide grin on his face. “This is marvelous!”

Sherlock frowns at him and John sighs, “Tom knew about how I felt about you.”

“Hell I knew,” Tom says. “I even helped.”

“Kind of helped,” John corrects him.

“Have you told Mike yet?” Tom asks, ignoring his remark.

“You know Stamford?” Sherlock asks in return, surprised.

“John introduced us at the PUB a few months ago,” Tom explains. “He asked me if I had met you yet, and he had that smile of someone who knows, so we ended up talking.”

“Of course,” John laughs. “What was it you wanted Tom?”

“Oh, it can’t wait, don’t worry.”

“In that case,” John says, “we’re going out.”

“Sure, sure, yes,” Tom replies, opening the door for them. “But before you go, can I ask you one question Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

Tom’s grin widdens, “That whole hole in your mattress situation, not really an accident, right?”

John watches as an answering smile blooms on Sherlock’s lips.

“Not really an accident, no.”


End file.
